


King and Lionheart

by Patchoo



Category: Ensemble Stars! (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Blood, M/M, Pining, kinda sloppy i wrote this at 3 am instead of sleeping huhu, sort of......, theres a war going on with knights and fine u will be able to tell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-26
Updated: 2017-09-26
Packaged: 2019-01-05 14:20:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12191589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Patchoo/pseuds/Patchoo
Summary: Madara finds Leo free; free to do, free to feel, free to be,Except Leo isn’t actually free, and Madara can’t do anything to change that.





	King and Lionheart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shitkai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shitkai/gifts).



> hello it's me again back on my pain based bs!!!! HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY JAMMIE! please forgive me for everything below, but i love u very very much!

It’s early February when it happens.

 

Trees blur out as they run down the forest, twigs and branches crack under their boots and mud stains the fabrics of two (a fairly expensive and delicate, and a considerably cheaper and rougher) pairs of pants. Laughter and complaints get lost in the foliage, and alarm a flock of crows, a shrill voice sending them goodbye as they fly away into the blue for quieter lands.

  
The sky is clear despite having rained for days on end the past week; the air still lingers with the smell of petrichor and the nearly intoxicating perfume of pine trees as they sprint down the invisible paths, following old, making some of their own. The breeze is chill on their skin and on their chests as it fills their lungs with each inhale. It smells like a dream, Madara has to admit. And it feels substantially real, contradictory as it is, unlike the rest of the things left back on the castle. Accountants and speeches and economy and the hierarchy of bastard blue bloods. War. Death. Trauma. None of that has a say right now.

  
Maybe that’s the reason Leo dragged him down here.

  
Madara can feel it, the yearning taunting him, prickling under his fingertips and pulsating through his body in sync with his heartbeat. His breath shortens, his legs protest, and he comes to a halt yet again. It feels like freedom is just there for him to grasp, at the length of an arm; right in the center of Leo’s palm and in between his fingers. He aches for it, as he believes he can get to feel and taste freedom for once in his life.

  
He aches.

  
But that’s just wishful thinking after all.

  
Leo turns around and graces the woods with his laughter. Again, unlike in the castle, and unlike the notes his nimble fingers make as he traces the tiles of the piano, his laughter is not by any means harmonious. If anything it’s boisterous, hysterical even. Many would find it annoying. Madara finds it comforting, carefree; resembling of youth and easier, quieter times. Madara finds Leo free. Free to do, free to feel, free to be,

  
Except Leo isn’t actually free, and Madara can’t do anything to change that.

  
“Come on, Mama! Are you tired already?”  Leo chortles, marching back to Madara with a broad smile and a teasing tone. Madara wouldn’t have reason to get tired before him, given years of training and polishing his abilities, but he can’t keep running aimlessly through the forest like this, for as much as he’d like to, as long as it’s by Leo’s side.

  
“Your Majesty,” Madara starts. “Why have you brought us both so deep into the woods? I’m certain it is unsightly for a sovereign to run away and get lost in his own kingdom.”

  
“Words, words, words!” Leo swirls around sharply on his heel, his step is resolute, but his wrist flicks in annoyance. “Just meaningless words come from that mouth, Mikejima-san. Where has your sense of humor gone?”

  
“Your Majesty—”

  
“Leo.”

  
“Leo-san.”

  
Madara inhales, exhales. The sword and his skirts feel too heavy on him, his fist curls and unfurls on nothing. Leo doesn’t turn around.

  
“We’re running away.”

  
He should have seen it coming. Plans to explore the world, secret meetings and scattered dreams over wine cups and feasts. That’s what Leo’s desires were made of, of course. His knights might not know anything of his departure; they wouldn’t have let him out like this. Unless they’re already hot on their heels, Madara has no way to know either way. He should have seen it coming.

  
Leo turns, at last, expression mellow. Twigs and gravel snap under his boot as he steps closer to Madara, holds his hands, stands so close to him. Madara feels like he’s just drunk a glass of sand.

  
“Leo-san, you more than anyone know that this can’t be,” Madara looks away, just to have his face guided back down by Leo’s gentle hand, meek eyes taking mercy on him.

  
“In spite of everything,” Leo’s eyes lid despairingly. Madara takes his time to deviate his sight to the crown adorning the orange locks atop his head. Gems glint and glisten under the sunlight. A reminder of how unattainable freedom truly is. “I should be able to be, to _love_. I want to be with you, Mikejima-san; trash out all the bloody repercussions and consequences of an expecting crowd. I want to be alone, with you.” Madara exhales with laughter.

  
“But, Leo-san. You’re a King. And I,”

  
Thumbs caress his knuckles, and Madara gravitates in to rest his forehead against Leo’s, closing his eyes, opening his heart. This can’t be, he thinks. Because love and other affairs between royalty and his cast are but wishful thinking.  However, the smell of petrichor and pine and Leo’s cologne are the only thing bounding Madara to earth; he can feel Leo’s smile, and his heart hammers slowly, but with unbidden strength. The harsh clopping of horses and the distant call of voices can be heard deep past the trees, warning their arrival. Madara smiles.

  
“I’m just a lionheart.”

 

* * *

 

Hostile steps clack soundly on the tile floor of the guest room.

 

A tall man sharks through the crowd of prancing dresses and fancy suits ignorant to their King’s pain. His expression is ice cold, and he can’t hear the whispering that follows behind him. People gushing about his sudden return, having believed in the rumors of his death; the tall man’s steps become more hurried as he slams doors open to find his target. His strides become larger, he raises his hand in a threat, and then his fist goes flying down, clashing straight on his the knight’s nose.

  
Silver hair and blue eyes stagger ungracefully to the floor with a yell, holding on the broken cartilage, and he only gets a second of leisure before a hand yanks on the front of his uniform, pulling him up aggressively. Madara’s knuckles and Izumi’s lip stain with his blood, oozing unstoppably from his nose. Madara snarls, hoisting the knight up and shaking him like dirty cloth.

  
“I trusted you,” Madara seethes. “I trusted you to keep him safe, and I come back to this _bullshit_.”

  
Leo’s other three knights sprint out from the corner, swords in hand, jogging up to them. Madara’s grip only gets stronger, and his scowl deepens. “I trusted you to a King, and you give me back a broken soul.”

  
“I only did the necessary,” Izumi coughs out.

  
“You sold him to Tenshouin’s tropes, tell me how that was necessary.”

  
Madara has to keep every ounce of willpower in his body under control to spare Izumi from another punch in the face when he speaks, and he grimaces. He grimaces at Izumi’s dry laugh, his body relaxed despite Madara’s grip, as if he were only a scarecrow, a doll, lifeless underneath the porcelain of his skin and the diamonds of his eyes. It’s disgusting.

  
“How dare you speak like that when you left, Mikejima.” Izumi says. “You left him to battle on his own while you were overseas having fun.” Izumi retorts, his smile is sickening.

  
“ _He had you_ ,” Madara’s grip trembles, his teeth grit horribly and his vision blurs. He feels sick. “And you poisoned the crown.”

  
“You weren’t even here. You left.” Izumi blanks. Blood drips to the floor, and his nose is starting to gain a nasty purple color. Madara feels like his lungs might have shrunk to a quarter their size, as his breath stutters in his throat. Izumi wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand why he left. He would never.

  
“Right now,” Madara mutters, his eyes sting, but his stance is definite, and he doesn’t give out. He doesn’t let him see, his heart turning into dust. He should have stayed. God knows he should have. “There is nothing I regret more than having left.”  
  
  
“Mikejima, you’re a counterfeit hypocrite.”

  
“And you don’t deserve the title of knight, Sena. You’re a _coward_.”

  
Madara lets go of Izumi’s uniform, his back hitting the floor with a thump. When he looks up, only the youngest of the knights has his sword raised. Purple eyes and red hair, he can see the metal shake under his hands, evidently nervous, but his gaze his definitive, courageous despite the tears welling and escaping his eyes to roll down his cheeks. His shoulders heave with sobs.

  
“Where were you?” His voice wavers. Arashi and Ritsu limit themselves to just staring at Madara, still hunched over a groaning Izumi. Tsukasa’s entire frame shakes with sobs. “When we needed you— when _he_ needed you. Where were you?”

  
Madara looks down and Izumi locks eyes with him, hostile even from his spot on the floor and the blood staining his beautiful skin and once neat, consecrated uniform. Madara feels sick.

  
“Answer you scoundrel!” Tsukasa cries, his hands tremble with brimming sobs, and his sword sways. His voice cracks and breaks, wavering weakly on his tongue. “He thought you were dead,”

  
“He’s on the garden.” Arashi steps in. She places a gloved hand on the blade of Tsukasa’s sword daintily and pushes it down softly, Tsukasa doesn’t protest, and the edge of the blade ridges the tile with a sharp noise. Her eyes fall to the floor, swallowing. “Regardless of what happened, Madara-san, you’re the only hope left. To bring him back, to revive him. So please don’t waste it away.” She looks up then, and Madara feels the weight of the world and a determination of steel fall on his shoulders like a sack of flour.

  
Madara blinks, then opens his mouth to speak as he takes a step forward, straightening up his back slowly. Ritsu’s eyes follow him like daggers as he steps on Madara’s way, he places a hand on Madara’s shoulder, and his words are uttered as soft as silk yet as poisonous as cyanide on his ear.

  
“Refrain from doing more regretful things, you’ve done plenty already.”

  
Madara nods curtly before striding down the hallway to where he knows by heart the gardens are, only halting at the despair in Izumi’s voice.

  
“I loved him.” He says. Madara only spares him a glance over his shoulder, sees him hunched on the floor, delicate hand covering his nose in futile attempts to keep the blood from rushing as it still spills between his fingers. He blinks. “I really did.”

  
Madara’s jaw sets, and he strides forward again, not bothering to look back or raise his voice to be heard. His boots clack on the tile floor as he turns the corner, and his heart shrinks in on itself.

  
“And look what that love did to him.”

 

* * *

 

  
“Mikejima-san,” Leo’s hand drops to hold his once again, looking up. “Mama,” Madara wishes he could hold his hand and get to look at his eyes for the rest of his days. “I can’t bear doing it anymore; sitting hours on end on an empty throne, in an empty room, full of empty people, and empty hearts. I can’t bear with the idea of wasting away my youth—no, my _life_ pretending everything in it is perfect if I can’t have you.”

  
Madara can feel it…—

  
“Mikejima-san,”

  
The yearning taunting him…—

  
“Mama,”

  
Prickling under his skin…—

  
The resounding clopping becomes more audible, voices growing near. Swords cutting through the air, bows charged with hatred, war cries, metal clattering against metal, and the incoming threat of a fated showdown between two rival kingdoms. Royalty. Angels; it all but disrupts the peace they find themselves in. Madara raises his hand, and cups Leo’s face. His thumb caresses the high of his cheekbone, the soft of his skin. And when the trumpets cut the silence, Madara can feel it—

  
“I love you.”

 

* * *

 

  
It’s early February when it happens.

 

Madara can feel it, the yearning taunting him, prickling under his fingertips and pulsating through his body in sync with his heartbeat.

  
His breath hitches, his legs protest, yet his hands comply. It feels like freedom is just there for him to grasp, at the length of the breath mingling with his; right in his the bow of Leo’s lips and in the strings of his heart. He aches for it, as he believes he can get to feel and taste freedom for once in his life.

  
And he does.

  
Freedom feels like a dream, tastes like heaven, and smells like petrichor, pine, and primrose cologne. Leo’s lips move against his with no protest, no restraints; and Madara can finally claim. After all the years of having known Leo, after all the hardships and rules breaking them apart, after all, Madara can finally claim he’s stopped aching.

  
Madara can finally claim they’re both free.

—

  
The two arrows that come down on them are swift, silent, piercing right through their hearts with trained precision. Madara looks at Leo for the last time. He’s beautiful, he has always been, and he will always be. Leo smiles, and Madara smiles back.

  
“I love you too.”

  
They’re both finally free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_And as the world comes to an end,_

_I'll be here to hold your hand_

_'Cause you’re my king and I’m your lionheart._

_A lionheart._

_A lionheart._

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MtyBBoOUgho) and dama's [art](https://twitter.com/0tabear/status/911717230802501633) please check them out!!
> 
> hmu on [twitter](https://twitter.com/heychoubae) !!!


End file.
